reason, he said, that the young don't read Carlyle.
A crusty old grumbler who lost his temper if the
porridge was cold, why should he preach to us?
was what Mr. Bankes understood that young
people said nowadays. It was a thousand pities
if you thought, as he did, that Carlyle was one of
the great teachers of mankind. Lily was ashamed
to say that she had not read Carlyle since she was
at school. But in her opinion one liked Mr.
Ramsay all the better for thinking that if his
little finger ached the whole world must come to
an end. It was not that she minded. For who
could be deceived by him? He asked you quite
openly to flatter him, to admire him, his little
dodges deceived nobody. What she disliked was
his narrowness, his blindness, she said, looking
"A bit of a hypocrite? " Mr. Bankes sug-
gested, looking, too, at Mr. Ramsay's back, for was
he not thinking of his friendship, and of Cam
refusing to give him a flower, and of all those
boys and girls, and his own house, full of comfort,
but, since his wife's death, quiet rather? Of
course, he had his work. . , . All the same, he
rather wished Lily to agree that Ramsay was, as
he said, " a bit of a hypocrite ".
Lily Briscoe went on putting away her brushes,
looking up, looking down. Looking up, there